


Hummingbird Heart

by Arazsya



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Monster!Characters, Multi, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/pseuds/Arazsya
Summary: Tim smiles, and the expression folds in on itself. Jon notices, for the first time, that the tear tracks on his cheeks do not follow gravity.





	Hummingbird Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flammenkobold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/gifts).



It takes Jon a long time to recognise the noise as a knocking at his door. He isn’t listening for it, or anything else, hadn’t thought that he’d be able to hear anything over the stuttering of the statement withdrawal in his chest. It hurts, but not enough to drag him to the Institute at this time of night – it’s distant still, like he’s just observing it, and he knows from experience that Elias will try to have another of those talks with him, the ones where he sits down and lets out a disappointed sigh and puts words in the mouths of people he had never cared about. He’s in no rush to get to it.

He has no idea when the knocking had started, but when it becomes a desperate crescendo against his senses, it doesn’t feel like it’s something new. He hears it, finally, and tries to set in motion the parts of his body that will let him stand up. The noise stops, leaving his flat in silence for a long moment, and then it starts up again, even faster than before.

Jon finally manages to haul himself upright, and stumbles on legs less steady than a fawn’s towards the door. The keys aren’t where they should be, because there’s no kitchen counter in this flat where there had been in the old one, and every time there’s a new burst of sound, as whoever it is hammers more and more urgently, his thought processes are shaken from his head.

He finds the keys, at last, stubs the point into one of his fingers trying to scrabble them out of his work bag, and jams them into the door, opens it without looking through the peephole.

Tim is standing on the other side, his arms wrapped around his chest, eyes darting around, as though he’s expecting an attack at any second. He hunches forward as soon as Jon opens the door, trying to crowd past him into the flat. Jon, reaching out an arm to catch himself against the doorjamb when his head spins so violently that it nearly delivers him to his needs, unintentionally blocks his way.

“Tim?”

“Jon,” Tim says. It _sounds_ like him, feels like him, where he reaches out to scrabble together a handful of Jon’s clothes, like fleeing from Prentiss together, all that time ago. “Jon, you have to help me.”

There’s a smear of blood across one of his cheeks, neatly bisecting one of the worm scars, parts of it blurred by tear tracks. The same part of Jon that feels what the lack of statements does to him starts to search for the injury it had come from, but Tim is shaking too badly for him to focus properly on any one part of him long enough.

He reaches out a hesitant hand, and it lands on Tim’s shoulder, feels the jut of his collarbone under his shirt. It hadn’t been so pronounced, before, he’s sure. But it has been months since he last saw him, longer than that since he’d last touched him. Maybe he’s lost weight, or maybe Jon’s memory just isn’t as reliable as he would have believed it to be, once, before the Sasha thing.

He peers out into the corridor beyond Tim, looking for another familiar shape, but all there is is that familiar pattern of hallway carpet, under fluorescent bulbs that give the whole thing a three-am sort of unreality.

Jon swallows, and drags Tim inside, propelling him into the half-dark of his flat, before he turns back to the door, more smartly than he’s moved in months, and locks it, pulling the chain across to secure it properly. Then he holds his breath, and turns back towards Tim.

It’s him. There’s no doubting it. He knows that face, has been dreaming of it for months, struggling to retain every detail of it.

“It’s you,” Jon says. He slumps, reaches for Tim, half to hold himself up, and half to pull him into the tightest hug he can. Once, Tim would have laughed in the embrace, and made some joke about cracking a rib, but now he just stands there, clinging to Jon like he’s the only stable thing in the world. “It’s really you.”

“You have to help me,” Tim says, again. He cringes, suddenly, backing away from the shadows at the edges of the flat. Jon lets him go, glancing around, trying to make out what’s spooked him, but there’s nothing there. “Please, Jon-”

“Tim…” Jon swallows words that he doesn’t know, closes his eyes for a long moment, forces them open again. “Of course. Tell me what you need. Are you hurt?”

“Please,” Tim says, sounds so unlike himself that something in Jon’s chest crumples.

“I’ll keep you safe.” It’s a rash, reckless promise, one that he’s sure he’d broken long ago, but he tells himself that he’ll learn from his mistakes. He’s had a lot of them to study, since long before he’d run away from Leitner’s corpse, since he’d heard on Georgie’s radio that it was four murders he was suspected of, not just one, since he’d returned to the Institute with Daisy’s knife in his back, still refusing to believe it, and Elias had sat there, all smugness and faux-sympathy, and told him that none of his assistants had ever come back.

“Martin?” Jon asks, though he already knows the answer, can see it in the wretched cast to Tim’s face and the empty space beside him.

Tim shakes his head, and his shoulders give a tremor so violent that it overbalances him. Jon catches him, pulls him back in, and closes his eyes against Tim’s shoulder, holds a blink far too long. His fingers curl into Tim’s shirt, wrapping themselves inextricably into the material.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His throat aches, suddenly, his eyes itching, and he presses his face harder into Tim, muffling his question. “What… what happened?”

Tim says nothing for a long minute, just stands in the circle of Jon’s arms, his shaking slowly beginning to subside. Jon’s stopped waiting by the time that he speaks again, one hand smoothing through his hair to settle at the base of his neck.

“I was with him,” Tim whispers, so quietly that Jon can barely hear it. “I was with him, and then I wasn’t, and by the time I found him… I couldn’t make it stop. But he wasn’t alone.”

Jon can feel the question of whether or not Martin had suffered bubbling in his throat, but he can’t ask it, knows, just from the sound of Tim’s voice, that he had, that they both had.

“I thought you were dead,” he says, instead. “I… I didn’t know what to think. You were gone, Tim, both of you. Sasha… I’m sorry. I thought she – I thought _that thing_ had probably killed you.” It hadn’t made sense to his brain, at the time. He’d tried so hard to reason that if the NotThem had killed Tim and Martin, it would have said so, would have forced him to hear the details of it, to see the drip of their blood from its fingers, would have dragged them down into the tunnels to kill them in front of him. But there had never been any other explanation, and with no alternative, it had lodged. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promises again, and supposes that at least this time, he’ll try. “I’m so sorry.”

Tim stands where he is, and Jon tries to breathe in the smell of him, remember whether or not he had always smelled like that – something citrusy, faint under the odour of fear, but definitely there – but he had never paid enough attention before.

There’s a snap of noise from the opposite wall, and Jon immediately turns towards it, head spinning violently with the motion. He pushes Tim behind him, and faces the figure with a snarl.

“You’re not taking him,” he declares, with a spite and arrogance that he’d thought he’d lost.

Behind him, Tim’s sobs have shifted, coming through a little lighter, a little more like laughter, and Jon’s skin crawls.

“ _Tim_ ,” Martin says, his voice gently chiding. He looks almost exactly as he had when Jon had sent him home – a little thinner, perhaps, like Tim, but he still has that softness in his face, that concern when his eyes pass over Jon.

Jon glances over his shoulder, towards Tim, whose arms are casually folded now, and then back at Martin. Stares between the two of them, trapped.

Then Tim smiles, and the expression folds in on itself. Jon notices, for the first time, that the tear tracks on his cheeks do not follow gravity, and his head starts to pound again.

“He needed to know how it feels,” Tim says, and he finally sounds himself again, that twist of anger, ever-directed at Jon. “Losing you.”

“You lied to me.” It’s all Jon can manage, bewildered and forlorn, as Tim shoulders past him to meet Martin. “You’re not him.” There’s an absurd rush of anger, and he tries to grab at him, pull him back and away, but Tim bats him away a hand that juts and curls unnaturally. “You’re not having Martin.”

“I didn’t,” Tim announces, reaching out for Martin, who just stands there, doesn’t even seem to notice any danger. “I am, and I have.”

“I don’t…” Jon’s voice stills in his throat, as Martin steps to meet Tim. Their hands fit together, and then they’re kissing, a blur of sound and feeling. He can’t focus on them properly, can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, his eyes sliding off to the side. There is a door there, in the wall, small and yellow. He wonders if Michael is on the other side, crouched to peer through the keyhole, if he’s laughing, too.

When they finally break apart, their fingers stay entwined, like the roots of ancient trees. Martin smiles at him, so familiar that Jon feels like he’s been torn open.

“What _happened_?” he asks, for all the good that it would do. Tim’s been brushing off his attempts at compulsion since he’d turned up, and Jon just hadn’t wanted to see it – if he’d only looked properly, he would have seen it. 

“Michael says he saved us,” Martin says.

“From the NotThem?” Jon reaches out to steady himself, a kitchen counter cold against his palm. “You shouldn’t even have been there, I told you to go-”

“From _you_ ,” Tim growls. “He saved us from you.”

“I would _never_ ,” Jon starts, but the heat of Tim’s glare pushes him back into silence.

“I told you the truth,” he declares. “ _I_ ’ve never lied to _you_. I was holding Martin when he died, and I was holding him when he woke up again, and I blamed you for every second of it. I never left him.” He shoots Martin a glance with far less violence in it than the one he’d offered Jon. “I never will. But I’ll give you my statement, I’ll make you feel it how I did.”

“Tim,” Martin says again, but if he goes on, Jon doesn’t hear it, too much of him picking the promise of a statement from Tim’s mouth, holding it up to the light so that he can see how it sparkles, how much he needs it. Too much trying to promise that he blames himself, too.

He blinks, hard, and they’re suddenly far closer to him. They look the same, so close to it that it hurts. Martin’s still wearing that jumper, though the stitches in the wool are perhaps a little more intricate. Tim’s wearing that expression that Jon had never thought he’d see again, all easy, open charm.

“What now then, boss?” he asks, and his smile is only slightly out of place.

Jon wants to fix them. Wants to take them back to the Institute with him, make Elias help him bring them back to what they were. Throw them to the Eye, and let it strip away the Spiral. Unless that just makes them into some new horror, a hated amalgamation of eyes and watching that wouldn’t even look like them, sound like them. A part of his brain whispers that that might be better, and he locks it away, deep enough that he can’t hear it anymore.

There’s a movement against the back of Jon’s neck, so light that he almost tries to brush it away as he would a spider. When he starts, it presses ever so slightly harder, and he knows that it’s Tim, circled around behind him, the sharp threat of his touch preventing Jon from turning to face him.

“Are you going to kill me?” Jon’s voice wavers, hasn’t the force to compel anything out of anyone.

“No,” Martin says, still in front of him, but moving closer. Jon’s heart starts to beat faster again, a pulse that he can feel in the surface of his skin.

“Michael wants him dead,” Tim says, his breath a faint warmth against Jon’s ear.

“ _No_ ,” Martin says again, more firmly. He must meet Tim’s eyes over Jon’s shoulder, an assertiveness to his face that Jon doesn’t recognise.

Tim hums, the noise a vibration against Jon’s back. It sounds like an old piece of machinery, finally subsiding into non-functionality.

“If you’re not going to kill me…” Jon takes a moment to steady himself, swallowing, but his pulse just seems to get faster again, and he can’t be sure if it’s statement withdrawal, or the way that Tim’s pressed up against his back, or that Martin’s close enough that he can hear the shift of his clothes. “Maybe you should leave.” His pulse stutters on, and something in him cries out at the idea of it, refuses to lose them again, even if this is what they are now.

“ _I_ wanted to hurt you.” Tim’s grip tightens, still not enough to break the skin, but far too close. Jon holds his breath, and reaches up, grasping his arm and moving it slowly away from his throat. Tim doesn’t fight him, but Jon can still feel his eyes on him.

“Do you want to hurt me, Martin?” he asks, gently releasing Tim’s arm.

For a long moment, neither of them moves. Or, he doesn’t see Martin move, and the two of them have become such strange mirrors of each other that he knows that Tim doesn’t move, either. And then Martin kisses him. He doesn’t realise that it’s a danger until it’s happening, and then he can feel Tim moving in even closer behind him, trapping him, one hand finding his waist, pressing just hard enough for him to know not to even consider trying to force Martin away.

Jon closes his eyes, and leans in. Martin tastes sweet, almost sickly, and he wonders if, if he turned around and kissed Tim too, he’d find him bitter enough to redress the balance.

“I loved you,” Martin says, hesitant against Jon’s lips.

There’s a single, violent moment where Jon wants to shove him away, wants to plant an elbow in Tim’s gut and twist out of his hold before he can exact retribution, because they _aren’t_ , but then something else floods his chest, something old and familiar that’s been trying to drown him for the past few months, and he recoils.

_They’re them_ , he tells it, desperately, struggling to ward it off. They look like them and they feel like them and they sound like them. They’re a little different now, but so is he, and he’s still himself, so why shouldn’t they be? They _are_ , otherwise he wouldn’t be letting this happen.

If they were really gone, if they were monsters, he wouldn’t deepen the kiss, his tongue pressing blindly into Martin’s mouth. He wouldn’t reach back for Tim, awkwardly tracing a line down his side, or groan when Tim’s lips graze his neck in response. He wouldn’t already be hard.

Martin sways slightly on his feet, like a snake about to strike, and then he’s gone, dropping to his knees. Jon twitches, half-stepping back into Tim, just as Tim’s teeth drag over his spine. His hand wraps around Jon’s throat again, more palm this time, and he can’t tell if it’s supposed to be erotic or protective or simply violent.

“Jon?” Martin asks, but it’s not a question that Jon understands, not one that he’s heard.

Tim moves in even closer, his cheek rubbing against Jon’s, and for a moment Jon remembers that streak of blood on his cheek, and wonders where it came from. If they had killed someone, taken someone into those corridors, or if Michael had just given them his captures, like a lion teaching its young to hunt.

“Jon?” Martin asks again. He undoes Jon’s fly, with the same care that he had always used when catching the spiders in glasses for him. Asking permission, Jon realises, and drags it to the forefront of his mind, trying to make it fill it.

_They’re not monsters_ , he thinks, as loudly as he can, and swears to himself that he believes it, that he’s right, that his racing pulse is excitement.

“Yes,” he says, raggedly, feels the vibration of it against Tim’s hand. He reaches back, trying to find the other one with his own, and catches Tim’s fingers in his, tells himself there’s nothing wrong about them.

Martin lowers his face, gently pulling away the last of Jon’s clothing, and then there’s nothing between his mouth and Jon’s cock. He’s in no position to judge whether or not Martin’s skilled at it, but he comes down Martin’s throat all the same, one hand tangled into his hair.

He stands back up, slowly, and stares unblinking into Jon’s face. Tim has to move him, tips his head down to lick Jon from his lips, and Jon finds himself moving after them, reaching for them both.

“I’m glad,” he says, as his hands land on their shoulders, trying to show them the direction they need to move in. Tim swallows the sentence from the back of his throat, and his brain sticks on the start.

_You’re glad_ , he thinks, when he loses the distinction between them again, on the bed he’s hardly used. _You’re glad_ , he thinks, when they lie there around him in angles that they shouldn’t be able to reach, and he can almost hear them murmuring to each other, sounds so tangled together that he can make nothing from them.

_You’re glad_ , he thinks, but he can’t quite convince his own hummingbird heart.


End file.
